Bitter"
by Drama Kitten NY
Summary: Roger attempts to deal with his feelings over April's suicide. Rated R for language etc.
1. The Movie in My Mind

Author's Notes/Disclaimer: None of the characters are mine, they're all the product of Jon Larson's pure genius! Yes I know Joanne and Mark didn't meet before the break up, but I screwed with the details, oh well.  
  
"Bitter"  
  
Cold, clear air fills my lungs, stinging my already raw throat. For the first time in months, I notice that I'm breathing. Maybe this means I'm finally letting go. It could mean, after spending so much time with Mark, my observational skills are becoming more honed. I sigh softly, letting my eyes drift towards the crescent moon. Maybe it doesn't mean anything at all.  
  
I hate the fall. Too many damn leaves, and the weather just can't settle. The sounds of a night of carousing drift up towards my ears. Is it Halloween already? The neighborhood punks are out smashing pumpkins. Strange. I thought no one in this part of town was good enough to be termed a hoodlum. We're much too poor to have a title. Not even something like 'lowlifes'.  
  
If I lean over the railing, I'll probably spot Mark and Maureen. She managed to drag him out, kicking and screaming of course. There was someone he just had to meet. I think the word 'pookie' is still reverberating off the walls. If you look close enough, her foot left a slight impression on the floor. Leather boots suck that way, and scuff marks are a bitch on wooden floors. Right now the term 'back-stabber' comes to mind. I just didn't have the heart to tell him.   
  
Maureen trusted me for some reason. I've been acting like a vegetable for the past six months. What would I possibly do with her precious secret? Think of it from my perspective: I haven't spoken in months, and I could care less about Maureen and Mark's relationship. The first words out of my mouth are going to be - 'Mark, you need a haircut. Oh, by the way, your girlfriend's gay and she's screwing some lawyer named Joanne on weekends'? Hell no! I may be tactless, but I'm not stupid.   
Let Maureen handle her own shit. She knew this, and so she trusted me.   
  
That giddy look on her face is about all I can remember. That and how she said it was a "spiritual experience." She poured out all the details. I heard what every man in the universe dreams of hearing. The truth is, I was too numb to take any of it in. That was a month ago.   
  
Zoom in on the street below. There they are, 'pookie', Maureen, and Joanne the lawyer. I wonder how long it will be before Mark is back up here, crying into the eye-piece of his camera. I give it ten minutes - tops.  
  
***  
  
Brown curls bounce from side to side as Maureen sidles up to Joanne, Mark in tow. Turning to the young filmmaker she plasters a cheesy grin across her face.   
  
"Pookie, this is Joanne," she indicates the stern looking woman with the caramel colored skin, and wraps one arm around her waist. "she's a defense attorney."  
  
A glazed look comes over the young man's face as if an inner monologue has begun. Shaking his head clear he extends a hand to the tightlipped lawyer. She grips it in her own, firmly, noting the slight look of panic in his eyes.   
  
After a few moments of awkward silence, Joanne nudges the other woman softly. Maureen takes no notice and stands there grinning away. "Honeybear--" Joanne prods a bit further, feeling slightly flustered at the look of sheer terror on Mark's face.   
  
Brown leaves skitter nervously along the curb as Maureen lowers her eyes. "Oh. Right." She clears her throat and looks back up at Mark, still clutching tightly to Joanne. "Mark, sweetie, we're through. You just don't see me anymore. To tell the truth, I don't think you ever really did. Joanne helps me express myself. She helps me see my art." She pauses, looking at Mark for some sort of response.   
  
Hurt and scared he begins to back away towards the door. Mark stumbles backwards up the steps, fumbling with words. He tears open the door, still staring at Maureen. "Take your goddamn art and shove it up your ass!" A slam echoes strongly through the street. Mark reappears opening the door wide. He stands, illuminated in the ugly light of the building's entryway, tears streaming from underneath hi glasses. "And make sure you have Joanne help you!"  
  
***  
I turn back towards the window after hearing the second slam. Mark's clumsy footsteps are painfully obvious in the silence of the loft. There you have it. Mark couldn't have scripted it any better himself. The narration crackles and pops with incendiary wit. A key scrapes loudly in the lock.   
  
"Roger?"  
  
Here's where I zone out, all too aware of what's about to be said. I climb inconspicuously back through the window just as the key starts on the second lock.   
  
"Roger? Open the damn door!"  
  
Landing on the couch I curl up, pretending to have dozed off. The door creaks open and I stir lightly. Mark walks into the dim light, trying hopelessly to hide his tears. I fake a nice, loud yawn, milking my performance for all it's worth. He stares at me for a minute, eyes searching my face. My face! It's completely scarlet from the cold air. He knows. Of course he won't say anything, but that's Mark.  
  
His coat falls to the floor and I can clearly see he needs someone to talk to. He's managed to rip several buttons off. Mark has that kind of strength? Who knew. He fiddles with the locks for what seems like minutes, the turns dejectedly towards the kitchen. Of course. Now he'll drown himself in tea and go hide behind that camera.   
  
Much to my surprise he yanks the door of the fridge open and pulls out a beer. Does Mark even know what to do with a beer? I wish I could just ignore him, but he is my best friend after all.   
  
Leaning ever so casually over the back of the couch, I clear my throat in his general direction. Not even so much as a sob of acknowledgement. We'll try this again.   
  
"What happened?"   
  
The words sound foreign on my lips. It's an interesting set of first words. Maybe not the best, but what can you do?  
  
The beer promptly drops from his hands, rolling listlessly underneath the counter. I always knew that damn foundation was uneven! There's a general look of astonishment, followed by some groping for words. Finally, he stumbles over and collapses into a chair. Tears start afresh and he hangs his head between his knees. I can barely make out his words through muffled sobs.   
  
"Maureen left me for a lawyer!"  
  
Unconsciously I nod as I turn to face him. "Joanne." Well there's proof of my stupidity. There's not much I can do to take back what I just said, so I shift uncomfortably on the couch. Maybe he won't notice. I'm not making any sense. Mark notices everything.   
  
"Her name's Joanne."  
  
What!? Mark must be really torn up over this. Secretly I'm wishing he'll smash his camera to bits in a fit of rage. I stare incredulously at him, still shocked by his lack of observation.   
  
"Some boyfriend I am. I made my own girlfriend go gay. Maybe it's just a phase. What do you think?"  
  
I stare at him, so empty inside. He always used to come to me for advice, but now I'm hollow. I can't come up with the right words. It's not as if I've been in this type of situation. The great Roger Davis, dumped for another woman? Right. That's the sort of thing that happens to...well, Mark.  
  
"I *don't* think."  
  
He sits there, for several seconds, not even glancing up. Maybe it's the far off look in my eyes that scares him away, but he scrambles up from the chair and into his room, picking up the beer as an after-thought. I collapse onto the couch again, swearing under my breath as the back of my neck fails to make contact with a pillow. Let Mark do what he will. He always bounces back in the end.   
  
My wishful thoughts about the camera's destruction return, complete with a vision of me, tossing metal pieces triumphantly into the trash can. Of course, that would mean going out to celebrate at the Life Cafe... and that means actually leaving the house. The balcony I can handle. No one can see me there. I don't have to interact with real live people. To truly leave the house and be back on the streets...I'm just not ready.   
  
There's so many things I'm not prepared to go through yet. I would feel so foreign and naked down there. I just can't picture myself walking down Avenue B without one arm snaked around April's waist. April. God, it even hurts to think about her. I want to shout at her so badly.   
  
Damn you! Damn you for turning my entire world upside down. Why did you make me fall helplessly in love with you, then leave? You left me alone to pick up the pieces! Everything has fallen so far into the cracks since you died. No. You didn't just die. You fucking killed yourself April! Why? I would have been there for you. We could have gotten through it together. I just don't understand.  
  
Yelling won't bring her back. It won't fix the growing rift between Mark and I. It won't even take away the almost unnoticeable blood stains on the bathroom floor. She was so careful. Just a few drops of blood spilled on those rotting wooden boards. Enough to sting me every time I walk in there. Could she have done it purposely? As if the note wasn't enough pain to put me through.   
  
I still remember that day, so clear it seems each time I think on it, it's happening again. I turn over on the couch, hiding my face in a pillow, trying desperately to block out the memories. It's beginning again, the film in my mind. It looks exactly like one of Mark's films, except in black and white like an old horror movie, and silent. The tears are coming now, searing my eyes, as I begin to shiver on the old, battered couch. I can't stop the film until it has played all the way through. By then I'll be in the bathroom, clutching at the sides of the toilet bowl.   
  
***  
  
A warm, spring wind sweeps through the streets, filling in the pauses between door slams. Laughter spills through the neighborhood, couples and young people strolling about in the sunshine. A young blonde playfully cuffs his friend on the chin, adding his melodic tenor voice to the laughter.   
  
"Don't worry buddy! Everything will go fine. I'm sure she'll love the flowers. Chicks always like that kind of stuff. I know April does."  
  
The view cuts to the stud's nervous looking friend as he adjusts his glasses. One hand clutches a bouquet of daisies, the knuckles almost pure white. His tousled, sandy hair blows freely with the breeze, making him seem all the more at odds.   
  
"I just wish I could have gotten her roses."  
  
They arrive in front of a rundown building, and the blonde starts up the steps, confidence oozing from every pore. He turns to the other man and fights to suppress a bout of laughter. Tossing his leather jacket over one shoulder he begins to pull open the door.  
  
"Mark--"  
  
The nervous looking young man mumbles incoherently for several seconds. It becomes obvious he is talking to himself. The blonde reaches out both hands and shakes Mark by the shoulders.   
  
"Mark, you're choking the flowers! Maureen is not going to appreciate a bouquet of stems."  
  
Mark loosens his grip on the daisies and lets both arms drop the his sides. He pushes past his companion and stops in front of the steps turning with a smile.   
  
"Thanks Roger. For everything."   
  
He continues up several flights of stairs, followed closely by Roger. The source of Roger's toned muscles is apparent as he effortlessly glides up the many steps. Finally arriving in front of a faded, slightly battered door, Mark fits a key into two locks and pushes into the loft. It would appear no one else is home, but for the grocery bags lined along a kitchen counter. No sound can be heard throughout the small apartment, save that of a ceaseless drip in the stainless steel sink.   
  
"April must have just gotten home. I'll go check in the bedroom."  
  
A sly grin spreading across his handsome face, Roger hurries down a short hallway. He disappears behind a door, leaving Mark alone. The young filmmaker stuffs the wilting flowers into the fridge, then addresses the empty room.  
  
"I think I need to vomit."  
  
He turns to a door on the left, musing curiously at the fact it is closed. He sounds three, soft knocks, then decides to attempt verbal communication.  
  
"April?"  
After several seconds of silence he tries the handle. Finding it unlocked he pushes the door open. Almost immediately he slams it shut again, teetering backwards into the living room. His lungs constrict, panic causing him to turn white pale. Mark races down the hallway, shoving open the bedroom door with a strange force. Sharp pains begin to eat at his heart and his knees start to go weak.   
  
"A-A-April..."   
  
The name hangs in the air, just barely audible, uttered in a gasp of breath. Roger turns towards the door, a look of curious amusement on his face. Seeing the state of his friend he shoves his way into the hallway, terror fighting its way into his fearless existence. Mark follows close behind, pointing a bone thin finger at the offending door. Unable to walk further he succeeds in collapsing by the phone. Shaking hands pick up the receiver and begin to dial three numbers as Roger slowly turns the handle on the bathroom door.  
  
***  
  
I manage to crawl off the couch and begin making my way to the bathroom. It's been so long since I've gone through this. The images reel about in my head as I slide into the tiny room. My head disappears into the toilet bowl as the film plays on.  
  
***  
  
Red. Everywhere red. The once pure white porcelain bathtub is coated in thick red liquid. Rivers of the substance spill slowly down towards the drain. Roger stares wide eyed at the sight, moving towards the red tub. He climbs in, slipping slightly in the warm, sticky pool.   
Blood. Coating her soft skin. The blood around her wrists hasn't even begun to dry. He clutches her small frame in his strong arms, tears spilling into her hair. The sweet smell of her perfume nearly causes him to choke. Roger rocks back and forth on his heels, holding her tightly, whispering into her hair.  
  
"Don't die baby. Please don't die."  
  
He chants the words over and over, clutching April's limp body. Mark appears in the doorway, immediately repulsed by the sight of his friend holding the girl like a rag-doll. Hot tears begin to scald his own cheeks as he notices the bathroom mirror. Loopy cursive covers the reflective surface, spelling out a haunting message in red lipstick. Ruby wine. The color that so often got smeared across Roger's grinning lips. He clutched at the sink for support, his voice barely audible through Roger's sobs.   
  
"Roger-- We've got AIDS. I'm sorry. --April"  
  
Ambulance wails invaded the air and heavy footfalls could be heard heading up the steps. Mark made his way over to the door, pulling it open for the team of paramedics. It took them ten minutes to wrestle her body away from Roger, and when they did he continued to rock back and forth on his heels. His clothes were smeared with blood, as were his hands. Mark stood frozen in the living room, rattling off information to the medics. When they finally exited the loft, a white sheeted frame strapped to the stretcher, Mark pulled Roger out of the tub.   
He paused for just a moment to look into the mirror, and read the words printed there.  
  
***  
  
"We've got AIDS."  
  
I choke out the words as my head returns from the void of the toilet. I can't possibly blame her. I love her too much for that. The funeral was small and brief. Mark and I didn't go. I couldn't bring myself to see her in a box. Mark knew if he left me alone I would attempt to join her.   
  
My eyes fall to the wooden floorboards. Several tiny, dark stains lie hidden in the shadow of the bathtub's overhanging lip. I stroke them, almost lovingly, not able to chance a look at the mirror. The sounds of a whistling teakettle break through my reverie. Like clockwork. Mark hears me flush the toilet and he puts on the tea. It's been this way for months. We won't even say a word, we'll just sit in the silence, staring at our broken television set, sipping tea. I attempt to stand, but can't manage it so I just sit with my back against the bathtub. I've always hated this room. Even before...  
  
The phone rings. We screen. I hear Mark curse loudly, and I know he's praying that it's not his mother. The answering machine blares our familiar, sunny little message.   
  
"Speak!"  
  
There goes Mark, stooping over the little machine, and it's now that I realize he's really hoping it's Maureen. She won't come back this time. This time is different. But I don't have to tell him that. Deep down in that observant shell, he knows.   
  
"Happy Halloween boys! Planning something big! I know you're home so pick up the phone."  
  
Mark picks up the plastic receiver, and I zone out again, knowing the conversation will mainly revolve around me. The bathroom walls are paper thin, and the door is open, but I don't hear a word of their little interlude.  
  
***  
  
  
  



	2. Burnt by the Wind

This is Part II of "Bitter" written in Mark's perspective. I've decided to make this into a series, each part from a different character's point of view. I'm writing as fast as I can, trying to improve on everything. In order to make my writing better...I need your reviews! Send 'em to me at Drama_Kitten_NY@yahoo.com  
  
"Burnt By the Wind"  
  
"Collins! This is sort of a bad time."   
  
I cradle the phone between my shoulder and ear juggling two tea mugs at the same time. I hate trying to get rid of him, it's not often that he calls, but Roger needs me. He needs a shoulder to cry on. God, holding this phone is really uncomfortable. I can vaguely hear some sort of commotion in the background. Collins surrounded by trouble, usually caused by him. It brings back memories. I stand there, slightly mesmerized by what he's saying. Moaning and whimpering noises drift over the static from the vicinity of the bathroom. I hope he's alright in there.  
  
"Wait...what!? You're downstairs? I thought...okay, right. Give me a second to find it."  
  
I dig around in a tiny drawer and eventually pull out the slightly rusted old key. Stretching the phone cord to its limits I lean over the balcony and let the key drop. I can vaguely make out a familiar skull cap and a coy smile through the dim light of the street lamp. Collins is back, for one reason or another, but why for only one night?   
  
Just as I'm about to check on Roger the door bursts open and I find myself immobile. He must be in a good mood. Usually Collins only bruises my muscles. My throat begins to constrict and I make an attempt to wriggle out of the tight bear hug.   
  
"Collins! Choking!"  
  
And suddenly there was oxygen! He ruffles my hair and I duck away, pale as death. It's not going to be easy retelling the terrible tale of Maureen and her lawyer. We sit on the battered couch and talk for a good half hour before a distinct sound of pain comes from the bathroom. I'm on my feet in a second, hurrying to Roger's side. Oh god...  
  
***  
  
Mark stood in the doorway, dim light illuminating his lanky figure. He placed both hands over his mouth and watched in silent horror as a razor blade clattered across the tile. Roger collapsed back against the porcelain tub, sobbing soundlessly into his arms. It wasn't the first time, but he had promised the filmmaker it would never happen again. He wasn't very good at keeping promises.   
  
"You fucking make me sick! You promised me last time was really the last time! Why!? Why do you insist on hurting me Roger? Go ahead! Give the knife in my back just one more twist!"  
  
Mark stalked away without another word, pushing past an alarmed Collins and into his room. The door slam echoed for several minutes before the tall teacher peeked curiously into the bathroom. He wasn't at all alarmed by what he saw. In one swift move the razor blade was lying at the bottom of a garbage can, and Roger was on his feet again, supported by strong arms.   
  
"You're going to give him a heart attack one day."  
  
***  
  
So here I am, abused by Roger once more. I collapse exhaustedly onto my tiny bed and sigh. I know he doesn't mean to hurt me, but it's been months. You would think he'd be out of that initial grieving stage by now. Not Roger. He's got a major grudge against God and me. If I hadn't kept him those extra ten minutes at the florist...  
  
But the past is in the past. You can't fight fate, and much as I hate to even think it, maybe she needed to go. April was beginning to wear a bit thin. It wasn't just the drugs. Roger was beginning to act jealous, and she had been confiding in me more often. She was trying desperately to quit, but dating someone who wanted the opposite wasn't helping her in the least.   
  
I remember a few days before she died, we had a long conversation. I had just gotten up to make breakfast and there she was, cereal already poured and milk set on the table. She was always beautiful. I don't think Roger told her that often enough. I sat down across from her and sifted my spoon aimlessly through the Captain Crunch.  
  
"April..."  
  
***  
  
"...I never pegged you for a morning girl."  
  
The mere shadow of a girl blinked at the thin filmmaker. The makeup under her eyes did little to hide dark circles, and even less for the angry red wounds on her arms. She chewed thoughtfully on a spoonful of processed sugar before replying.  
  
"You and me both. I couldn't sleep. The shaking was too violent. I was so frightened Roger would wake up and find out." She sullenly ladled out another heap of cereal and watched milk drip back into the bowl. "I thought maybe if I kept my hands occupied..." She gestured to the wide expanse of shining rooms.   
  
Mark grimaced in worry. April never cleaned, and she hardly ever ate. She detested Captain Crunch, though if Roger found that out he would be crestfallen. He reached across the table and forced her chin up. Staring her in the eyes he frowned.   
  
"Are you okay?"  
  
After moments of intense quiet, a single tear rolled down her cheek. Mark gently wiped it away and smiled softly. Ever so slowly, April opened her mouth to speak.   
  
"No. But I will be."  
  
***  
  
Maybe I should have paid attention to those words. They could have been some sort of warning. Did she even know then that she would kill herself in two days? I lay back against my pillow, head swimming with unanswerable questions. What if we had gotten home ten minutes sooner?   
  
I've had plenty of time to consider suicide since that day. Some people are just crying out for help. April was the kind of person who would ask for help straight out. I believe she sincerely wanted to die. What I don't understand is why she wanted to get clean if she was planning on killing herself anyway. Maybe when she found out about the AIDS it just grew to be too much. We'll never even know.   
  
Those words still echo in my mind, her telling me that she was going to be alright. If only Roger could have heard that. It might ease his pain somewhat. How can I possibly be so upset with him after all he's gone through? Why I am such a moron? I yelled at my best friend when I should have helped him. I'm worthless.   
  
Then again, if he knows how much it hurts me to see him like this, why does he do it? Why does he purposely force me out of his life? Why am I the one who's all alone? I sigh and roll off the mattress, feeling the need for some sort of closure. Hopefully Collins won't have to play "go-between". Hopefully Roger will speak to me. I wouldn't blame him if he didn't. After what I said...  
  
I shake my head at the rash, tactless, quality of those words. How could Roger ever make me sick? I wish I were more like him; strong, handsome, talented. All I have is my camera. I can't even capture what I set out to film. Why am I such a failure? Maybe I should be the one holding the razor blade.   
  
***  
  
Mark carefully inched his way out to the living room, eying a somewhat disgruntled looking Collins. He played with the bottom of his sweater, tugging gently at the coarse material. The scholar smiled consolingly at his friend, patting an empty spot on the couch.  
  
"Is he--"  
  
Collins cut him off with a finger to his lips, pointing in the direction of Roger's room. Mark cringed visibly, once again mentally berating himself for ruining Roger's life. It was an ongoing cycle, a vicious circle, this friendship of theirs'. Roger would do something to stir Mark's repressed anger. Mark would lash out, Roger would yell. Mark would run away, Roger would sleep. Mark would cringe, or cry, or bang his head against a wall for "ruining" the friendship. Roger would brood, Mark would apologize, all would be well.  
  
How could all be well when Roger never apologized? He left everything on Mark's shoulders. The filmmaker was always the one to concede, to give in, to sumbit to Roger's demands. It wasn't fair. Why did Mark insist on doing this to himself? *Because I'm the one who's always wrong. Roger just needs his space...* *Roger needs, Roger wants, Roger takes. He always gets what he wants. What about you?*   
  
What about Mark?   
  
He shook his head softly and ambled towards the kitchen, dragging his feet along the cold, wooden, boards. Selective hearing was a good thing. He didn't have to listen to the disgusted sigh coming from Collins. Didn't have to hear the wail of police cars down on the street. For once, he didn't even hear the soft crying drifting in from Roger's room. He could never escape the voice inside his head though. The voice that knew everything about him. Knew how he was a failure as a friend and as a filmmaker. This voice knew his secret desires and needs. It drove him crazy, always taunting and teasing. *What about Mark? Why can't Mark ever have what he wants? Why is Mark never good enough?*  
  
With a loud crash, the tea mug dropped from his hands, porcelain pieces scattering across the floor as hands covered ears. Footsteps quickly came towards him, causing a gut reaction. Backed up against the counter, shoulders hunched down, tears beginning to sting at the corners of his eyes. Arm around the shoulders...Collins...leading him to the couch...telling him everything would be okay. He was shaking, shaking like the leaves that rattled when Maureen echoed that awful voice.   
  
*You weren't good enough for me Marky. You were a failure as a boyfriend. Now you're a failure as a friend too...*  
  
He sobbed outright, letting the scholar rub his back, shove tissues into his hands, croon words of comfort in that warm baritone voice. Collins was always comforting, always fixing things, always talking sense. He was the only one who talked sense. He managed to drag Mark back into his room, cover him up with the comforter, turn out the lights.   
  
Mark wouldn't sleep, couldn't sleep with the voice. *Failure...not good enough...weak...* He listened to the words attentively, curious, wanting to drive them away, but at the same time...believing they were true.   
  
Collins cast one more look on the shaking Mark, then walked back towards the kitchen, beginning to clean up the broken mug. Fixing things...as usual.   
  
***  
  
After staring numbly at the ceiling for what seems like hours, I manage to drift into a light sleep, but that doesn't stop the thoughts. Sleep...something I can't even define. I know too little about it...too little of it. How can I sleep when my thoughts plague me so much? I really am a failure. I failed Roger. It was my fault that we didn't get home earlier. Why haven't I felt guilty until now? God, my life is such a sham. I pretend...I always pretend to be something I'm not. I feign strength and supportiveness. I act as if I'm productive and alive. I haven't been alive in so long...  
  
*You're so weak Mark...so very weak...and selfish...alone...*  
  
What if I did kill myself? Who would care? I'm sure Roger would hardly even notice. Collins would clean up after me. Maureen would probably be overjoyed. Benny...I haven't seen Benny in two months. I can picture it now. He'd be sitting there, reading some yuppie newspaper, and happen across my obituary. He'd flip to the next page and continue sipping his coffee. Apathetic. That's how I imagine Benny's reaction. Even if I did kill myself, no one would worry about it. They all have their own lives, seperate agendas, I wouldn't want to interrupt them with funeral preparations. I guess I'll just have to sit here, with the thoughts, playing my role in this twisted game.   
  
  
  
  



End file.
